“What be you a-goin’ to do, Lem?”

“Indict the town,” replied Lem, vigorously.  “Who is the town?  Jethro, hain’t he?  Who has charge of the highways?  Jethro Bass, Chairman of the Selectmen.  I’ve spoke to him, time and agin, about that piece, and he hain’t done nothin’.  To-night I go to Harwich and git the court to app’int an agent to repair that road, and the town’ll hev to pay the bill.”

The boldness of Lem’s intention for the moment took away their breaths, and then the awe-stricken hush which followed his declaration was broken by the sound of Chester’s fist hammering on the counter.

“That’s the sperrit,” he cried; “I’ll go along with you, Lem.”

“No, you won’t,” said Lem, “you’ll stay right whar you be.”

“Chester wants to git credit for the move,” suggested Sam Price, slyly.

“It’s a lie, Sam Price,” shouted Chester.  “What made you sneak off when Bije Bixby come?”

“Didn’t sneak off,” retorted Sam, indignantly, through his nose; “forgot them eggs I left to home.”

“Sam,” said Lem, with a wink at Moses Hatch, “you hitch up your hoss and fetch me over to Harwich to git that indictment.  Might git a chance to see that lady.”

“Wal, now, I wish I could, Lem, but my hoss is stun lame.”

There was a roar of laughter, during which Sam tried to look unconcerned.

“Mebbe Rias’ll take me over,” said Lem, soberly.  “You hitch up, Rias?”

“He’s gone,” said Joe Northcutt, “slid out the door when you was speakin’ to Sam.”

“Hain’t none of you folks got spunk enough to carry me over to see the jedge?” demanded Lem; “my horses ain’t fit to travel to-night.”  Another silence followed, and Lem laughed contemptuously but good-naturedly, and turned on his heel.  “Guess I’ll walk, then,” he said.

“You kin have my white hoss, Lem,” said Moses Hatch.

“All right,” said Lem; “I’ll come round and hitch up soon’s I git my supper.”

An hour later, when Cynthia and her father and Millicent Skinner—­who condescended to assist in the work and cooking of Mr. Wetherell’s household—­were seated at supper in the little kitchen behind the store, the head and shoulders of the stage-driver were thrust in at the window, his face shining from its evening application of soap and water.  He was making eyes at Cynthia.

“Want to go to Harwich, Will?” he asked.

William set his cup down quickly.

“You hain’t afeard, be you?” he continued.  “Most folks that hasn’t went West or died is afeard of Jethro Bass.”

“Daddy isn’t afraid of him, and I’m not,” said Cynthia.

“That’s right, Cynthy,” said Lem, leaning over and giving a tug to the pigtail that hung down her back; “there hain’t nothin’ to be afeard of.”

“I like him,” said Cynthia; “he’s very good to me.”

“You stick to him, Cynthy,” said the stage driver.

“Ready, Will?”